The Dragon and The Lion
by JodieJo
Summary: Daniello Erisso is young liar hunting to find an ancient Daedric artifact; a mask of bewitching words, and convincing speech. With such power, his will would be unstoppable, and his influence undeterred... Yet, the boy's reckless abandon for unholy magic shall guide him down a dark path. A place where the absence of his conscience, and perhaps even his soul, are one in the same
1. The Young Liar

1.  
The Young Liar

The winds howled with unrelenting fury, yet they could not topple Daniello.  
Icy wisps clawed at his cheeks until they were tender and raw. He brushed snowflakes from his eyelashes, straining to see through the veil of winter along the Jerall Mountains. As far as the eye could see, from east to west, there was nothing but the sprawl of gloomy, gray mountains dressed down in cloaks of white; the Throat of the World loomed like a silent guardian on the eastern horizon. The summit reached to the high heavens, a place Daniello knew he could witness, but never reach. In all the stories he had ever heard, from boyhood to his wizened sixteen years, he knew of only one person to have climbed the Throat of the World in his lifetime. Or perhaps there had been others, and only _one_ lived in such infamy.  
 _  
He's gone now,_ Daniello thought. Did it matter who had climbed the Throat of the World? As if to confirm his feelings, he stole a second, neck-craning view of the titanous alpine, and thought, _Maybe he never existed at all._ Stories were like to do that, Daniello learned. His father had said long ago that raconteurs were dream-weavers with their heads in the clouds.

"They'll sing about Gods and heroes," Daniello's father used to say, while he struck red-hot steel with a black mallet, "And piss and moan when they're plates are bare, or their pockets are shallow." Songs and childhood fables were passages of adolescence, and seldom did they provide bread and water.  
Was that why the sight of the infamous mountain soured him, so? Had his dream of seeing the peaks of Skyrim come with a bitter realization? _There are no heroes,_ he told himself. _Their stories are fodder for our imagination._ It was in that moment, under the shade of the Throat of the World, that Daniello decided that his childlike creativity could serve him no longer. _There is no hero atop the mountain,_ he thought bitterly, _and no dragon to be slain._  
With his declaration, Daniello turned his back on the peak of the world, and started west.

A camp sat at the foot of the snow-sprinkled forest. Biting, chilling winds rustled through the nordic pines, but they proved small match for Daniello's shag of fur and leather. He might have appeared to be a small bear to the untrained eye. Between the dark wood pines and the tired, languid snowfall, he could see a golden lit flame. Fur tents, and a sigil bore on a tall, ashewood banner. The Bear of Eastmarch bore its fangs, blue and fearsome, with a stripe of white. _Stormcloaks? I thought they were all gone…_  
The fire might as well have been a kiss from Akatosh. Winter's vice receded as the young hunter sat beside the warmth on a leather rug, knees huddled close to his chest. For a moment, Daniello considered never leaving this spot. _I could sleep here, maybe steal the tent for my own…_ His eyes wandered, and it was only now he realized how heavy his mind felt. The days of travel, camping under the stars with naught but fur and leather for warmth had taken its toll on him. Huddled close, he laid on his side, and felt the heaviness of sleep bring his eyes to a close. In the darkness of his mind, he saw the rush of heroes and legends, all tales his brothers and sisters would read him before bed. Tiber Septim and the Battle of Sancre Tor, Gaiden Shinji and the Siege of Orsinium… Mathiu and the Mother…

"Up, boy."

"Fly off, old man," Daniello said. He hadn't bothered to open his eyes, but as consciousness began to find him, weary and confounding, his first thoughts were to the iron dagger he kept close to his heart, slung in a leather sheathe with a cotton-woven thong. _Stab him,_ a voice said, _if he lays a hand on you._ No mercy in the wildlands. It was the first rule Daniello's uncle taught him in what felt like a lifetime ago. _Or someone's lifetime ago._

"Do not try my patience," the stranger said. "You're not a soldier, nor a courier. Find your feet and leave. I haven't patience for squatters."  
Daniello found his feet as bid, certain that the stranger meant no harm, else he would have committed the deed already. He brushed snow from his thick fur hood and found the man with weary eyes. A Nord, tall and lean, with a shaggy blonde as he was, there remained a tenderness in his watery blue eyes.

"I needed only a moment of respite. Excuse my intrusion."

The old Nord gave a shrug. He reached down and hoisted up ice-buckets dangling from a long iron rod. "Bah, never you mind, Imperial. I seldom find people in this neck of the country. Oft times, the only voice I hear is the wind's whisper, and even she's begun to turn me mad." After a moment, the nord smiled, an expression riddled with a maw of yellow and brown. "For a moment, I thought the cold had stolen you from this world."

Daniello returned the smile, but only as courtesy. "In due time." He offered a hand, "Daniello Erisso, of Bruma."

"Ralof of Riverwood," the Nord said, and gave a soft handshake. He canted his head, as if to steal a better glance at Daniello. "Are you going somewhere, friend? I can point you to a warm tavern nearby, if that suits your fancy. Is there a reason why you're roaming the mountains?"

Daniello straightened himself out. "I'm looking for my father," he said quickly. It was a simple, practiced response, and it would suffice. "You mentioned a warm tavern?"

"Oh, aye," Ralof began, "off the cusp of the forest. Follow the river north into Whiterun Hold, and you'll find Riverwood. But…" He trailed off for a moment.

"But?" Daniello raised a brow.

"Stray from the wilderness of Falkreath Hold," Ralof said. "There's an old hermit who lives in a cabin. Best you don't tread on his lands."  
Daniello fought back a snort. _As if I am to be frightened of some half-witted homebody._ To answer, he offered only a stiff nod. "An odd place for a camp," he asked suddenly. "I don't imagine you happen upon many travelers."

Ralof wandered over to the patched tent, which Daniello was certain had seen better days and, most of all, better patchwork. The old soldier laid the buckets beside the leather bedroll inside, and with a heavy sigh (whether from the weight of the water, or the subject of the question, Daniello couldn't be sure), he said, "I've been at this post for four years, friend. The last Legionnaire to storm the hills of Falkreath came two summers ago, and every season since, I've spent it with specters." He dipped a wooden cup into the bucket, and gulped down frigid water. "I must hold Falkreath. Those are the Jarl's orders."

"Isn't it time to go home, then?"

"Not until Ulfric sends word." Of all the words the Stormcloak soldier named Ralof had spoken, it was this single declaration that sounded most certain of all. It might have been all that tethered the man to the ground he walked on. "He is the true High King of Skyrim."

"The war ended ages ago," Daniello offered. "Pack up, soldier. You said Riverwood is only up the road - why not go home?"

Ralof smiled, though his eyes bespoke of a hidden sadness. "I swore vows, friend." He drew his sword from a leather sheath and guided a strip of cloth down the iron. Judging from the looks of it, it appeared to have been seldom used. "The terms of the truce were to last only until after the Dragons were gone."

"I see no dragons," Daniello said. "Your Bear of Eastmarch is the first of Ulfric's banners I've spotted since Windhelm. You explain, soldier, for it appears to _me_ that wars are fought, not observed. Where _is_ the fighting?"  
Ralof's smile, like the seasons, faded much too quickly. His lips pursed, and he said nothing.

Daniello bit his lip. Would it have been better to hold his tongue? _What are soldiers without a war to fight?_ He turned, and began making his way north.

"Imperial!"

With a glance over his shoulder, Daniello regarded the old soldier.

"Be mindful of that hermit I mentioned," Ralof said. "He's not one to bother."

If Riverwood were to be summed up in a single word, Daniello decided that word would be _modest._ The buildings were sturdy, the roof thatching would fend off rain and bugs, and as the young hunter made his way north along the coursing river, he realized the _bugs_ plagued Whiterun Hold the worst, second only to wolves. Snow receded as the mountains descended, but for every snowflake in the Jerall Mountains, Daniello was certain there were thrice the amount of bugs. Bloodthirsty mosquitos and cocksure honey bees, all buzzing, all a nuisance that swarmed him. If not bloodsuckers and honeymakers, then it was furious swarms of gnats, and if they failed to make an appearance, the _wasps_ were quick to remind him of their unyielding stings.  
By the time he reached the foot of Riverwood he had scabs by the dozens, itching worse than a whore's curse, and the thought of a warm bed had fallen second to ointment for his bug bites.

"I can't help you, dear," the older woman who kept the Sleeping Giant Inn said. "If I'm to be honest, medical work's a touch out of my range of expertise."  
 _She must be better with book-keeping and ham-slicing,_ Daniello mused. "Are there any alchemists who can help me? Surely there's something I can lather on the wounds to stop the itching?" He often found that, in truth, it did not do well to ask _simply_ for what he wanted. It did, however, prove easier to ask for what he _needed,_ and merely continue from there. _Now, if I managed upon a certain potion of honeyed words, I may find my endeavor easily achieved,_ and to be frank, who could deny a bit of help every now and  
again?

"Burning sage ought to keep the bugs away," the woman said. "As for ointments?" She paused, and guided a thumb along her cheek. "I do know an incredible alchemist, but… No, he dislikes people on his land."

"So I've heard," Daniell said. _An incredible alchemist?_ Not a title often prescribed - he made a note of it. "Is there anyone else?"

Delphine's lips fell. Had something wistful stolen her mood? "Not unless you're willing to hike to Whiterun and see Arcadia, but if you ask me, she's oft in the habit of misdiagnosing. Mixes her ingredients up from time to time - oh, pity her, the years have taken their toll."

Daniello gave a nod. _This woman babbles on and on..._

"There's another woman you can see, however. Anise, I think her name is. Not a bad mixer of potions, but she's not like to take customers in my experience."  
 _Then why mention it?_ He felt a flare of irritation."If it's the best I can muster," Daniello conceded; he learned long ago that too many questions quickly raised suspicion. It did better to speak mystically and succinctly, his each word a puzzle piece meant to fall into frame.

"Before you go, can you do with a name?" The woman crossed the tavern, and flipped open a hefty ledger. "How many nights are you paying for?"

"Daniello Erisso, and I believe three at the most." He reached into the satchel at his hip and counted out thirty gold septims. "And you are? My mother always said it does well to know the names of those you dine with."

"Delphine." A feathered quill flicked across the book, and the woman glanced up at him. "Would you do me a favor, dear? If you do decide to visit that old alchemist in Falkreath, could you take a little gift basket up to his cottage? Nowadays, he rarely visits. I'd like to be sure he hasn't forgotten me."

Daniello drew up his travelling cloak. "Will do." It seemed his journey would take him to Falkreath instead. _And who knows? Perhaps the alchemists could give me exactly what I need?_

"His name is Rokon," Delphine said. "Let him know we miss him. He ought to know that."

Falkreath had always held a special place in his heart. Colovia had once run from south to north of the Jerall Mountains, and everything, from the names to the accents were, in some way, vaguely Colovian. In the mountains, not unlike his family's farm near Bruma, the snows were thick and the winds were torrential. Once the altitudes lowered, the lazy snow that insulated more than it froze became still as a summer lake. He saw much of that in Falkreath; lowland forests, inviting yet ominous, with lightly wintered pines.  
Lake Illinata followed the road west until it came to the White River, and the rushing current collapsed off the bluffs of moss-grown rocks. A curious, haunting mist cloaked the westward path, but Daniello had read enough books about Skyrim's wilderness to be mindful of the region's notable weather. He climbed up the hill to a quiet cottage overlooking the lake, where the fog began to thin out, warded off by lit torches settled on wooden sconces dug into the earth. Was it a reminder to travelers? This land belonged to someone, and it was not to be tread? Perhaps…  
Daniello continued with a half-hearted shrug. _What's the worst he can do? Kill me?  
_  
Next to a lush garden of nightshade, deathbell, and garlic sat a rusted iron signpost which read, 'Lakeview Manor'.Moss had grown over the better of it, and weather left the hinges dangling on each beckon of wind.  
The young hunger brought his knuckle up, and rapped on the wooden door. A stir echoed from inside, and hefty footsteps drummed off the floorboards.  
A mass of brown and gray appeared in the doorway. It towered almost a foot over Daniello in shaggy furs, and from under a low-hanging hood, Daniello could see a thick black beard and large white tusks.

Yellow eyes with pitless black pupils narrowed down at him. "Yes?" the Orc asked with a gravelly rasp.

"My name is Daniello," he said quickly, "You must be Rokon? I came to ask for medicine for my mosquito bites. Wasp stings, too."

"Go elsewhere." The door slammed shut.  
 _  
What a miserable old -_ Daniello brought his fist against the door with a booming pound. "Don't disrespect me, old man. I'm willing to pay - by the Nine, open the damn door.

"Can't I ask you a question, at the least?"

Silence.

Daniello grit his teeth. _This is an incredible alchemist?_ "Fine. Mingle on your ownsome." He leaned down and placed the bundled basket on the stone porch. "I brought a reminder from your mistress in Riverwood. She says you're welcome to come around anytime you'd like." He turned away. "Not like you would bother, all settled up in the middle of nowhere." _Hermits like you die alone,_ he thought. Daniello had more experience with home-dwellers than he cared to admit. Once in their haven of safety, people like that often mulled about in their own pit of self-loathing, self-reflection, self-this, self-that…

"Delphine?"

Daniello spun around. Rokon hoisted the basket up, most of his figure obscured in the shadow of his cottage. "She must care for you a lot. Does she send you packages often?"  
The hermit snorted. Half a heartbeat later, the door slammed shut.


	2. The Brandy

2\. The Brandy

Anise's Cabin sat passed Lake Illinata, not far from the foot of the northern mountains. If he squinted he could see the forlorn archways of Bleak Falls Barrow high above, but to his knowledge, the tomb had been empty for centuries. _That was the Dragonborn's work,_ he recalled. The story had been told to him by his grandfather when he was a boy of nine. Settled beside the hearth back on their farm, old Calrion Erisso, an Empire man until the day he died, swore up and down about the honorable and noble Dovahkiin, the Nordic hero who unlocked the ancient underbelly of Bleak Falls Barrow's tomb by use of a golden hand, and slew an evil overlord at the heart of the mountain.  
"Fire and lava," Grandpa had said, "all raining down around them! Dovahkiin's mighty axe, and the Overlord's crystal sword, fashioned with frosted hearts from the chests of Atronarchs! Never had the mountain experienced such a duel - it threatened to upend the world on itself, I promise you that."

Promises, Daniello remembered. All of them unkept. _And he wondered why I grew incredulous._

An old woman sat outside the cabin beside the running lake. Daniello shuffled his way over to her, louder steps than typical, else he might startle her with his habitual silence. Hooded, the old crone turned and smiled, heavy lines on her face creasing. "Hello, sweetheart. Are you having a pleasant day?"

"It could be better, my lady," Daniello admitted. "The bugs are nipping at me like a fresh-cut winter's veal. You wouldn't happen to have any recipes for ointments, would you?" _Amongst other things, perhaps? Aging cream, as you might require? How about a potion to reverse your womanly climacteric?_

The old woman, presumably Anise as Delphine said, cocked her head. A thoughtful look came across her face. "Oh, I reckon so. I might have just the thing. May I see your bites?"

Daniello drew his leather tunic's sleeves up and bore the crimson-speckled scabs on his arms.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk! They've made a buffet out of you, sweet boy." Anise tapped her chin and reclined in her chair, one leg folded over another. "Fetch me a bit of that Netch jelly from inside, and on the desk you ought to find a freshly mashed dragonfly paste."

Daniello glanced to the door of her cabin. His chest began to swell. Surely any alchemist worth their weight in salt kept a book of research notes? Ingredient lists, even?  
He entered the dusty, dimly lit cabin. Each step creaked, and through the veil of scattered dust, he spotted a desk passed the rotten mattress - which appeared seldom slept in. The desk itself, scattered in ash and dabs of dried candle wax, leaned to an edge with stacks of books reaching to the cobwebbed ceiling. A step passed the mattress, and something shifted under his weight.  
 _Under the bed,_ he noted. Was she hiding something? Daniello bore witness to more than his fair share of trapdoors, and the hollow rattle under his foot felt all too familiar.  
He brushed a breath of dust away and snatched up a bowl of mashed insect parts, hoping in part it was all in fact dragonflies - and let his fingers brush over a grubby a flick of his thumb he turned to the center. Recipes for minor tinctures, ingredient lists, and inane scribble that wandered between the bindings. _But does she have what I need…?_ He flipped through the pages, some stuck together with stains of brown, until he found a list of decoctions.

' _Flowered Words, Honeyed Verbs! One pound of troll fat, one sliced Imp gall (mind the piss). Lasts eight hours, alcoholic, pungent - clears nostrils, but can cause bloody nose. Never use in the cold.'_

With the grace of flickering candle,Daniello slipped the journal into his pocket. It would have to do.  
Across the lake, between the valley of mountain and lake, the sun began to set along the horizon. Daniello sat himself at Anise's side.

"Perfect, dear. Did you find everything with ease?"

His lips peeled back into a smile. _Much too ease._ "Indeed, my lady."

The truth of it was, and as much as he loathed to admit it… It could be said that life never blessed Daniello with much. His mother had always been quick to remind him how much better he had it than others; weak Orc children were eaten by their mothers, and some children never owned a bed to sleep in, or a meal to fill their bellies. In spite of that, no matter how true her claims, it could not be denied that life had left him _wanting,_ and with that bottomless urgency, known by all whom ever dared to _want,_ Daniello had little flavor in settling for _less._ But more came with a price. At the foundation of every mighty economy, Daniello's father once said, one cannot argue that it began with a _lie._ In his heart, with the equal certainty of a zealous priest, he knew that if what he _wanted_ lay at the end of hundred, or even a thousand lies, he would not hesitate to tell them all.

No, it did not shame him.  
Haggling for troll fat under a mist of rain, however, _did_ shame him. A pound of the blubber came at the cost of most of his coffers, and after roaming the road to Whiterun, he found a band of Khajiit with great burlap sacks willing to extort it.

"Rasiq sell you two imp piss-stones," the white-faced lynx said, standing under the cloak of a autumn-red tree. "Two imp piss-stones, and you give me your ring."

"It's a wooden ring," Daniello said while he pinched the bridge of his nose."What sort of bartering are you playing at?"

"The kind that praises Zenithar, my lucky friend," Rasiq said. "Two imp piss-stones for seventy septims, and your wooden ring." He paused, and with a grin he said, "and praise Zenithar, my Imperial friend."

"I rather feel I'm pissing on Zenithar," Daniello admitted, but he relented easily. Let the Khajiit have the ring. _It wasn't mine, anyway,_ he thought. _If someone comes looking for it… Well, the old cat will be in for a surprise._

By morning, after breakfast in the Sleeping Giant's dining hall (where a cocksure bard insisted that Bosmer eat their children), Daniello sat in his room, door locked, mashing sliced imp gall and troll fat, wondering if there were any wenches willing to entertain his modest purse. Likely not, but the notion only served to set him ahead. _Once I'm wealthy, I'll have any woman I want._ A concoction of troll fat and imp bladder, dissolved in dizzying cauldron of alcohol so strong, Daniello was certain it would burn a hole in his liver; all together, with the extract ladled into a vial with careful precision, would be enough to _embellish_ his words.

 _The Merchant's Swill,_ they called it on the sea, for it could sell a man his shoes for the price of his steed. _The Diplomat's Wine,_ he once heard it called, and though it often went unsaid, he knew without a shadow of doubt that even the greatest of debates were ended when one man persuaded another.  
And who could deny a bit of help every now and again? Of course, Daniello was rather fond of the concoction, and when he served as a diplomat for his uncle, it often came of use - but never had he crafted it. His need for money, once afforded by his service to the Empire, only now came with the realization of how _dire_ his situation had become.  
Six hours later, corked in a tiny vial, an emerald liquid coursed like blood. If he had more money, he could have afforded more for a higher dosage, but… It would have to do. How strong would it be? How does an orator measure the strength of his words? The potion, in his experience, could _persuade,_ but never command. If the subject in question were riddled with doubt, an elixir of speech could beckon them, more alluring than a lover guiding them to bed. _How exhilarating it is,_ he thought in pleasant reminiscence, _when they follow you to bed._

A knock at the door. "Daniello? Are you well?"

Without urgency, he began to slip his tools aways, and tighten the lid on the cauldron. "Indeed I am, Delphine. The ointment from Lady Anise undid me, I fear. A moment, while I dress." He answered the door, and offered his brightest smile. "You look radiant, my lady."

Delphine smiled, though in her eyes, he spotted a certain hesitation. "Would you do me a favor…? I don't mean to bother you, of course."

"You're no intrusion, my lady. May I ask what you need?"

Delphine held up a wicker basket. Inside sat a wheel of eider cheese, two bottles of Cyrodiilic Brandy, and a loaf of bread. Perhaps she had meant to hide it, but Daniello spotted an envelope tucked between the bottles and bread, and smile found his lips. "Would you take this to my friend on the hill? I figured he might grow tired of fish and elk after a while. Only if you don't mind the walk."

Daniello took the basket. It would be a good opportunity to witness if the pungency of his new elixir could match the strength. _Mayhaps I can convince the old Bull to give me his notes as well._ Or maybe… better yet, he had spare coin to part with? _Or with honeyed words, he can be convinced to part with… just about anything._ "Of course, my lady. I'll be only a minute."

Friends never came easy to Daniello. He had one friend in his boyhood, on the farm outside of Bruma. A stableboy who polished the ponies, his name Olfdar, would often ride with Daniello after sunset, when the adults were readying for supper. Olfdar had been a bull of a boy, with a broad chest and big, fat hands. A boy of few words, save for one morning, after his father returned from war after three years to found a newborn at his wife's teat. The day after, when Daniello and his brothers went hunting, he found Olfdar crying under an apple tree. They talked until the sun set, and he was certain it was the most Olfdar had spoken in a year. _His mother had a black eye and fat lip for a week, and that sodden old veteran ran off to Skyrim._

It hadn't been a terribly good friendship. Olfdar's shyness, as Daniello began to learn, came with a reason. The boy, mighty as he was, would have been better fitted _without_ a brain. Exercising thought oft put the boy's mind in a state of stress, like a languid hamster resting at the wheel; every conversation they shared had to be directed by Daniello.  
Stupidity aside, the dullard was naught if but loyal.

Boys in Chorrol, better dressed with better pedigrees, could often find anything to criticize about Daniello, whether it be the holes in his moccasins or the patches in his vest. At first, without his uncle or Olfdar, their words were pricks of needles against soft skin. After befriending Olfdar, not a noble's brood in sight could make a taunt without six-and-a-half-feet of ferocious Nordic might (of which Daniello was certain had been partly to blame for the boy's mental impairment), _that_ behavior earned its own parental ire at the time, but Daniello learned swiftly how powerful words could be. _If I seek simpler company, I'll find cheaper labor._ Yes, it was as simple as that.

The road to the hermit's cottage still traced out Daniello's morning steps. Light rain came in from the east, sending a thousand ripples across the moonlit lake. With his hood up and a torch raised to guide his way along the paved cobble road, he found the cottage overlooking the lake. The windows were golden lit, with a smoking chimney trailing along the horizon. Did the old Bull never leave his home? Daniello shivered at the thought. How miserable it must be, he wondered, to be confined to four walls… Asceticism, though necessary in dire times, held small love in Daniello's heart. No, no… If afforded a man in extravagance is a _always_ closer to godliness. Even the worst of bleeding heart poets and devout monks could not argue the magnitude of influence that came with opulence. Now, if only he could find the _mask,_ the mask of bewitching lies, undying proclamations and conviction... if he could find _that_ , then he could do anything…

He knocked on the door.

Someone rummaged about in the cottage for a moment, and in the darkness of the evening, the door came open. The tall orc with gleaming yellow eyes peered down, masked in shadows.

"Here to grovel?"

"Not likely," Daniello said. "You refused me once, friend. I'll not think to ask you again. Besides, I found the ointment I needed." He paused for a moment, craning his neck to peer inside the cottage. The room, lit in a golden, smoky haze, seemed cluttered to the brim in trinkets and treasures. Metals seemed to glow in the light, from brass to bronze, and the unmistakable glint of _gold._ "Your friend down by the Giant wanted to gift you something."

The Orc's gaze flickered to the road leading onward to Riverwood. "Tell Delphine… The gesture is appreciated. My answer remains." The door began to close.

Daniello slipped his foot into the door. In a gesture that might have been described as a _blink,_ he sipped from the vial in his palm. It stung his lips, his tongue, and as it slid down his throat, he thought for a moment it might burn a hole. "Whatever it is that has separated the two of you might be easily mended. Perhaps if you give it a chance…?" The door slowly came ajar. _It worked!_

"What do you know, boy?" The Orc's voice came with a tone of tamed iron. "Or do you speak before you think? Mind your nose, Imperial, and pick carefully where you prod it."

"I know she sends you gifts rather often. Also, I know - "

The door slammed with such force, Daniello thought for a moment the echo in the forest had been the roar of thunder. He stole a step back, eyes wide, and thankful his toes were left unmarred.

"Fine," he said, before his mind could catch him, "Be a miserable old bastard. Die in there, you dirt-eating savage. Never mind the efforts people make to _reach out_ to you." _Why do I care, anyway?_ How did two old people's love affair become his business? With an incredulous snort, he spat on the wooden door. He reached down, scooped up one of the bottles of Cyrodiilic Brandy, and gnawed the cork off.

It might have been the first swig of Brandy that undid him (or perhaps the second or third, mayhaps the twentieth), but Daniello was certain it was the _cheese_ that knocked him off his feet. Each bite of cheese came with a swig of brandy, and soon he felt his digestive tract twist into a knot, bubbling like an overfilled cauldron. He had never held his liquor well, but he never let his paper-thin belly keep back his love for the dull feeling that came with alcohol.  
He wandered the road for sometime, lost in the dark, until he followed his way back to the cottage, and tossed about on wet grass. The cheese lay against the garden dirt, swarmed in ants, while the rest of their troupe explored the basket for the bread. Daniello swatted away the little black insects, until he spotted the white envelope tucked away.  
Sober, he wouldn't have bothered. But with a nasty hiccup and red cheeks, his biting curiosity had him tear the envelope away, and straining his eyes in the dark of night. No matter how hard he squinted, the frayed parchment's text appeared only faintly legible.

 _Why do I care…?_ There he went again, passing notes between two old lovers with old secrets and old wounds, and neither one daring to stomach through a conversation. The thought brought forth a hearty, chilling, self-deprecating laugh. _I might as well be a child again._

It was in that moment, against all logical rationale, he decided to stand. Wobbly, his head heavy with poisonous malice and far too much brandy for a thin-framed, hundred-and-twenty pound _exile_ with no purpose or place, he heard the faint whine of a familiar voice in his head, mocking and pleading all at the same time. _You were supposed to go home, and where are you now? Why are you climbing through the dirt, sweet boy? Have you fallen?_

He wandered along the garden of deathbell, rustling the violet cloves with the touch of his outstretched hands. _You weren't exiled,_ he thought quickly - much too quickly, _You were pardoned._ Was he? Now, without thinking, but only hearing the whip of his Uncle's voice say, ' _Stupid boy, stupid, stupid',_ he found himself lifting up a window. It was all that kept him from the drizzle of rain outside, and the cold, unforgiving voice that reprimanded him.

Daniello's practiced grace became a tumble of slumped limbs on a rickety floorboard. The hearth held dying embers, and save for that, the rest of the room was cast in a dim bronze. Walls were lined in trinkets and bobs, from quirky Dwarven thing-a-ma-jigs to stuffed, crooked creatures with giant maws and black eyes. Had he stepped into a museum? Mosaics of tattered silk splayed out on the wall, beside a table with a crimson blanket laid over.

Tossed about, joined by a lungful of dust, sat a series of weapons and ornaments. A golden talon, an odd key with a spherical handle, and a… dagger? But what sort of dagger?  
With a glance to the dark door at the far end of the room, and his breath held tight, he took the dagger into his hands. Unlike any metal he had ever touched, for the dagger kept a warmth still, he realized quickly that it had no grip, but rather ended on a sharp, jagged slab of what appeared to be bone.

Daniello snorted. What good was a dagger made of bone? To mock the Orc named Rokon for his stupidity, Daniello flicked the tip of the dagger across his thumb -  
"Damn it." He bit his tongue, and let out a strained grunt. A warm, budding sensation dulled on his thumb, and a moment later he could feel the sharp sting of a deep wound. _The poor hermit must spend all his time whittling,_ Daniello assured himself. He popped his thumb into his mouth and suckled on the coppery flavor of blood. Above the mantle, where most men kept swords, Rokon had instead placed a iron sigil; the ring of a snake biting its own tail. _How counterproductive,_ he thought.

In the dim lighting, he spotted a mirror across the room. There he stood, in tattered furs and muddy leathers, looking every bit less of the soldier he once was, and more of the vagabond he'd become. Fair skin with moonless hair, and olive eyes that were oft said to look like his uncle's. The streak of blood on his bottom lip, however, earned a twist in his belly, and he turned back to the table of treasures. If he had never written that letter… the letter that ended his budding career and closed doors on him forever… - if it hadn't been for that letter, would he still be a soldier?

The poison that robbed him of logic came again, and he spit a wad of blood at the ground. Fingers coiled around the golden talons, and he made for the window.  
Suddenly, he had no desire to remain there.

In the dark of night, under the gentle fall of rain, he wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and see tomorrow's sun. To get away from this leaky little town, dash off to the nearest merchant and swindle five hundred gold - but most of all, find the mask. _The mask,_ he thought in drunken despair, _what if I never find it? What if he never offers it? Can I ask for it?_ Daniello had read too many books. He knew how fickle Daedric Princes were.

On a few feet away from the cottage, he stumbled, and became lost in the dark. He spotted a glint of steel in the forlorn moonlight. Three looming figures made their way toward him along the paved cobbleroad.

"You there," one of them said. As he neared, Daniello could see an ugly, bald man with a missing eye.

"Hello, gentlemen," he said quickly. "You wouldn't mind buying me a drink, would you? My mouth is dryer than an old wench's thighs." Daniello raised his head with the brightest smile he could manage, lost in his stupor. _Maybe they'll be my friends? I reckon I could use a friend or two._

"No, boy. We're here to teach you a lesson."


	3. A Night Unlike Any Other

3\. A Night Unlike Any Other

Long ago, when boys wrestled in schoolyards, each one trying to prove they were better than the other, Daniello had often considered himself _flimsy._ Even smaller boys could wrestle him to the ground, and the bigger of the boys could handle him like a ragdoll. If ever altercation were to arise (in the certain situations in which he'd spoken to brazenly), he knew better than to address it with brawn… but often times, it appeared it was forced upon him.  
In the morning, after losing consciousness in a half-dug hole, he realized exactly what _lesson_ the thugs intended to teach him. It might have came with the sobriety, or perhaps he'd grown tired of lying in the dirt.

The sun dawned over the mountains. He rose from the earth, battered and bloody; one check through his pockets and he knew something was missing. Both the potion and the journal were gone, as well as the rest of his money and the dagger he kept strapped to his chest.

 _The old witch named Anise._ It must have been her. What a fool he had been! _Any alchemist would notice their missing notes._ Had he honestly thought he could rob a seasoned mixer? She must have hired help, someone brawny to teach the newcomer in town a painful lesson about thievery, and Daniello would not soon easily forget.  
Only a few yards away, the cottage door opened. Rokon stepped out with a broom in hand, dressed in a woolen tunic. _Rotund,_ was the word that came to mind as Daniello peered across the yard. Heavy around the waist with long, thick legs, the Orc meandered around his garden like a giant amongst mice, careful not to tread on his flowers and cloves of deathbell.

Oxen shoulders, wide enough to lug a house with, and a swarm of braided black hair decorated in feathers. _He must have heard them beat me. Maybe he watched…? Does he know I broke in? Does -_ but those thoughts came to a halt. The Orc _watched._ He must have!A savage of his size could have gnawed the ruffians with his baby teeth and made out with naught but a bruised shoulder. _Some hero he is. What kind of man sits around while the weak are trampled?_ Poison nestled in his belly, stirring the worst of hangovers he ever felt - combined with the rumbling urge to vomit, Daniello grit his teeth and charged forward against all reason. The alcohol created a simmering rage in his chest (or perhaps unlocked one?); boiling blood made his heart quicken, and as he crossed the field to Rokon the Orc, he knew his mind had lost pace with his mouth.

"You're a miserable old bastard, do you know that?" Daniello stood before the hermit, near a foot his junior, but in his heart, he felt like a lion. "You heard them beat me, and worst of it? You didn't care - what sort of man are you?"

"Fly off, boy," the Rokon said, "Pick fights with men you can win against."

"You don't even know _why_ they attacked me!"

"Why else would they brutalize you? Because you tickled their noses, or because bratty, guttersnipe thieves are dimes a dozen?" Rokon's eyes narrowed. "Do you think me a fool? Learn from your blood, boy. Make better decisions."

"What do you know about decisions?" Fire rose up in Daniello's chest. "When was the last time you ever did anything more than _exist?_ "

Rokon remained in silence. Upon closer inspection, Daniello saw his face in better clarity. If not for his beard, the old Orc's two chins would dangle near his collar, but it was his mouth that offended the most. An old wound, emblazoned on the top corner of his lips, peeled the flesh back, baring the white of his wolfish canines. _An axe must have cleaved his ugly mug in two,_ Daniello thought, _and what an ugly mug it is._

"Go sleep, young boy." Rokon laid a hefty hand on Daniello's shoulder. "Have a cup of tea. It will calm your mind."

"Rot in Oblivion, old man." Daniello snorted, and summoned up the nastiest wad of phlegm he could. When he spit, Rokon stood perfectly still, and let it strike his boots.  
Any well-traveled fool could tell you that disrespecting an Orc was amongst the list of poorly thought out rationale, but… It appeared Rokon kept his fury - if there were any fury to tame. The hermit might as well have been fashioned from stone. _Stoic Orcs,_ Daniello thought bitterly, _how trite._

"Would you like a cup of water?"

"No," Daniello said. He stormed away, his fists clenched tight. "Keep your filthy water. I have things to collect."

"Collect? Boy - come back here!" The Orc stepped off his porch.

 _Sod off, savage,_ Daniello thought. What did it matter if he were a flimsy farm boy from south of the Jerall Mountains? He was more clever than any fox, and twice more cunning than the average snake. _I can get my things back. All I need do is kill three men._

The shame of it was, regardless of his personal feelings, there could be no denying that his _flimsiness_ came at a lack of trying. Why should he fight, when he can have soldiers fight for him? Was it so bad to ask a man how valuable his life was, and fill his pocket after the fact? Daniello had figured, when he watched Khajiit and Orc mercenaries sell their blood for gold during the Stormcloak Rebellions, that if a man were willing to price himself, who were you to deny him payment? _And since when have morals conflicted with commerce, I ask you?_ And so he barted at the tavern for someone to fight for him. Pity him not, for the prevalence of shallow pockets irked many men, himself included, yet doubtless, one could always be sure that _someone_ out there needed coin more than they needed life.

The Sleeping Giant Inn housed few people aside from Daniello. A dusty old Nord with sour breath, the bard whom insisted Bosmer were poorly endowed, and a crooked looking man in a leather vest. Daniello sauntered to him, and gently rapped his knuckles on the table.

"Evening, friend. How's the road treated you?"

The crooked stranger glanced up. Dunmer, with bleeding eyes that made Daniello feel naked and skinless all at once. Under an ebony hood threaded with chainmail, the stranger smiled thinly. "Not unusual, nor cruel, yet cruelly usual." He licked his lips, and turned his gaze back to his untouched meal. "And your own?"

"Riddled with misfortune, friend."

"So I can tell, Imperial. You've a bruised face. Now, why'd something like that happen, I wonder?"

"Might you like to know?" Daniello smiled, minding himself to show all his teeth. "Bandits robbed me of my goods, friend. Could I trouble you for aid?"

"Aid?" The Dunmer canted his head. "Mm, yes, I can see that. You've seen the unkinder side of life, haven't you, boy?" He raised a brow, and combed finger along his thinly braided beard. "Do you have a name?"

"Daniello Erisso, my friend."

"Caspius," the Dunmer said. "Tell me, my new friend, what have these thieving bandits stolen from you? Do you know where they are?"

"I can only imagine." Daniello grit his teeth. The old crone would know, and if she didn't, he'll at least give her a piece of his mind. _I can only wait to see the bitch squirm._

"Now, now, they wouldn't have been three Nordic gentleman of unmodest stature?"

"Quite so," Daniello said. "How did you know?"

"I believe I might have caught a whiff of them." Caspius smiled, and prodded at his bowl of stew. "Fresh blood stings sour, so they say. Mm, if you found the three gentlemen, what would you do, dear Dannie?"

Daniello bared his teeth, though to others, it might have been described as a smile. "Well, dear Caspius, I would…" He lowered his voice, "Slit their throats."

Caspius drew away, his expression neutral. For a moment, Daniello thought he had said too much… until the Dunmer's thin lips found a sharp grin, and he let forth a chilled chuckle. "How terribly _droll._ "

"I'm sorry?"

"Mother pity me, you are unashamedly amateur, sweet boy, and there is no denying the charm. Now, Dannie, when we find these men, do you promise to kill them?"

"What sort of question is that?" Daniello scoffed. "I will wield the blade myself."

Caspius smiled. "Then why do you require me?"

"I - three against one is, admittedly, poor odds to a mere boy like me."

Caspius' lips spread further, from ear to ear. "Well said, boy." He gave a soundless clap, and folded his hands on his lap. "Rather sharp mind you have, like a fine speartip."

"And even deadlier," Daniello added.

"More poisonous," Caspius said, "But… deadly? Not deadly enough to collect your stolen goods?"

"I fear not."

"Pity." The Dunmer's ear flicked, and he eyed Daniello up and down with a curious gaze. With a gentle nudge, he edged his bowl of stew to Daniello's side, and stood from the bench. Each gesture he made appeared to steal the air; his grace ran parallel with a panther's stalk weaving through jungle bush. "If you want your equipment, boy, find me on the steps to Bleak Falls Barrow later tonight. Your prey awaits."

Daniello felt his spirits soar. "Excellent!" He bit his tongue, and muttered, "How much do I owe you, my dear friend?"

"Not a coin, boy." Caspius made his way to his room along the corridor. "Merely keep your promise."  
Could it be true? Hired without payment? _Perhaps Zenithar's answered my prayers?_ As Caspius closed his room door, Daniello nearly sprinted to his own.

"Daniello!"

"Lady Delphine," Daniello bowed, stopped at his doorway.

"You gave that old hermit his basket, yes?" Delphine asked from behind the bar. "I haven't heard from him yet - "

"Of course, of course," Daniello said, "He said he adored the brandy. Excellent vintage - pungent, very much so."

Delphine narrowed her eyes. Something there, in that moment, froze, and Daniello saw a fire ignite in the old bar wench's eyes. "Those were his words?"

"Indeed, my lady."

"Aye, I see."

Daniello crept behind his door. "Until later, my lady. Tomorrow, I venture to Bleak Falls Barrow."  
Delphine raised a brow, but said nothing. Already, Daniello knew he could not stay in town for long. _She'll begin to question me, and the last thing I need are more questions._  
Tomorrow, after he pried his things, and more things, off the men who robbed him, he would be far away from the leaky town of Riverwood and its prying barmaids, antisocial alchemists and vicious old women…

After tomorrow, he would have not only seen combat, but fought it. _That stranger's confident enough,_ he figured. _I daresay, he is quite charming._

Winter fell with gentle abandon that night. Daniello followed the road to the grim arches of Bleak Falls Barrow, his heart gripped in a vice that slowed his steps, and made his wispy breaths more and more ragged. Fighting would not be enough in the coming hours; he would have to kill. What was it like to kill a man? Did it burn a hole in one's heart to watch someone die? Could he live with himself, even?

Daniello often considered killing to be an art; he had seen many men beheaded at the chopping block, and fewer hung from the gallows. He knew what to expect as someone drew their last breaths, voided their bowels, and rolled their eyes into the back of the head, but... There could be no denial; killing with your own two hands came with a different set of feelings, none of which Daniello had ever properly confronted. _I'll have to confront it tonight,_ he thought as the bitter winds stung his cheeks. _I must spill blood._  
After the sun set on the horizon, Daniello found himself wishing he could see in the dark.

Save for the blanket of white snow, he could see vague shapes before him of trees and rock, and most of all, the arches of the tomb itself, Bleak Falls barrow. The closer he came, the more it loomed, tall and menacing, forcing him to crane his neck to accept the wider vista of the ancient grave. Secunda and Masser watched him from afar upon their celestial thrones, both in waning crescents, while the sprawl of a thousand and more stars blanketed the night sky.  
Bleak Falls Barrow teemed with shadows. From a small hill near the black steps of the tomb, he could see black wisps of smoke, and the outlines of tents along the platforms overlooking the mountain. _Have bandits taken it as fortress?_ he wondered, as he watched shadows move about the camp indiscriminately. Daniello might as well have been a shadow.

"Blessed are we," a slippery, hissing voice said, "To fight on a clear night. More often than not, the snowy winds clutch the Barrows in a lover's embrace. Were the skies less clear,

I'm afraid you'd not see a foot ahead of you."

Daniello felt his heart shiver, and spun around. In the dark of night, Caspius detached himself from the shadows - a gesture as simple as taking off his cloak.

"Are you afraid, Dannie?" Caspius asked.

"Never."

A soft, musical laugh filled the night air. "Brave boy, very brave, very witty, but very _stupid._ Have you ever killed before?"

"It hardly matters," Daniello said quickly, "I am ready. People have killed for thousands of years - d'you mean to say I'm an anomaly of primal nature?"  
Caspius' teeth glinted in the night, but Daniello could not tell if it were merely a smirk, or something more ominous.. "Mm, so I should think. Tell me, dear boy, how will we proceed?"

"We'll kill them, obviously," Daniello said, though in his heart, he felt less certain. "Are you certain these are the men who robbed me?"

"Yes." Caspius licked his lips, his thirsty eyes scanning the horizon. His ears flicked, and the Dunmer swirled, glowering at the pitless dark. "You came alone, as I asked?"

"Of course."

Caspius appeared rather unconvinced. "Follow me. Ready your dagger." The Dunmer started off, his strides long and graceful - so much so, Daniello saw no footsteps trail after him. How could someone walk so tenderly? To leave all in their path undisturbed, even the very ground they walk on?  
Struggling to hug Caspius' rear, Daniello stumbled through ankle-deep pits of snow, feeling every bit less experienced and more foolish with each step.  
It appeared to Daniello that it was better to describe Caspius as a shadow, rather than a person. He seemed to appear and reappear, his skin a reflection to the abyssal night; whenever Daniello lost track of him in the dark, the Dunmer took him gently by the wrist, manifesting from thin air with a pearly white sneer on his lips.

"A man sits in the taller tower - he's their lookout." Caspius whispered. "A long bow with poorly fletched arrows - but in weather this clear, he'll have no difficulty in riddling you with holes. Not before he alerts the camp, however…"

Though Daniello squinted, he could see only the vaguest shape at the elevated nest on the crook of the Barrow's platform. In one moment, he stood on two feet, and in the next, something clutched his hips tightly, and a pitless weightlessness filled him.

"What're - "

"Quite, Dannie." Caspius' fingers were an iron vice lifting Daniello up through the air - but how could such a slender man have so much strength…? The Dunmer helped Daniello climb the platform to the cold stone of Bleak Fall's Barrow. In one elegant vault, Caspius scaled the fortress' sloped walls with a tender landing on the balls of his toes.  
Together, they edged closer to the nest, silence at their backs.

 _I'm a fool,_ Daniello thought bitterly as he clutched close to Caspius' rear, hugging his every step. _A miserable fool, that's me, and every bit as much a coward._ Of course he was a coward - no one of reasonable thought could deny that he was a coward, yet only now it would be fitting to call him a _stupid coward,_ for here he was, long away from home, committing terrible deeds in the black of night; deeds that, even if his life depended on it, there was no certainty in his heart that he could _truly_ commit what he intended. Indeed, of both the coward and the fool, he wore both crowns.

A narrow bridge divided the nest from the tomb, and it was _now_ that he could finally see the archer. _How could Caspius see him? It's the dead of night…_ Perhaps the Dunmer was a sorcerer of some sort? There had to be an acceptable reason, Daniello figured - a potion of Night-Eye, or some enchanted ring! There had to be a logical reason, but… that did not explain the man's ethereal grace…

Caspius pried Daniello's frightened fingers from his cloak, and made a sweeping gesture to the archer in the nest, now only measurable feet away. "Are you ready, sweet boy?"  
Daniello nodded.

A blink later, Caspius' threw his shadow across the moonlight. In the dark of night, Daniello saw a small shadow pummel a towering one, until Caspius' glowing white teeth shone through the midnight dreary.

"Do it.' The command left Caspius' lips without its prior melody and luster, but with a cold, resounding authority. The man in Caspius' hands wheezed, yet sharp gray fingers clutched his throat into a twist of flesh.

Daniello readied his dagger. His hands were shaking ( _it's the cold,_ he told himself), and he felt the leer of feasting eyes on him. They tore through his flesh like searing-hot fish hooks. "Where?" he asked suddenly, straining to hear his own voice over the thunder of his heartbeat.

" _Where?"_ Caspius let forth a shrill giggle. It might have been the cry of a dying animal. "Where do you think, stupid boy? Where does death begin? In the sternum? The heart? Mayhaps the throat?" The Dunmer's furious smile widened, until all that remained was the haunting glare of hungry, pearly whites.

 _Do it,_ Daniello screamed to himself. _You've imagined it a hundred times - do it!_  
His hands refused to move.

"Tsk, tsk." Caspius' white smile began to recede. "Stupid boy.' The Dunmer's silhouette flashed, his hideous smile bared, and the man in his arms cried out. Daniello saw what might have been a kiss delivered from Caspius to his victim, yet it lingered, so very unlike a kiss, and more of a _feast._ Caspius released his meal, and as the drained corpse slumped to the ground, the sound of rushing water filled the air. _It sounds like a fountain_ , something in his mind said, and Daniello's boots slowly but surely grew wet and sodden.

"What have you - " Daniello began, but never finished. How could he? Caspius' once white smile glinted crimson, and his beauty became horror. _A beast,_ Daniello thought in panicked fright, through the thunderous sound of his own beating heart, _He's a monster… a monster, oh, by the Nine, what have I -_

The wounded man screamed.

"Mind your iron, boy," Caspius said, his words lisped and slurred, lips smacking with wet clap of blood."They'll skin you with it, and whip your hide into a coat. At least, I would." The Dunmer leapt from the nest, shadow sprawled out, and the night embraced him like an old friend restoring the natural order.

"Arthur? Arthur, what's wrong?" Voices, more than he could count, all nearing closer.

Daniello froze. The man on the ground twisted, convulsing with hands to his throat. _It sounds like a fountain,_ he thought suddenly, _when they bleed… it sounds like a fountain…_  
Golden lit lanterns embraced him, and now there were people all watching him, armed to the teeth.

"Vampire," one of the bandits shouted.

"By the Eight!"

"It's murdered Arthur!"

"Kill it! Where's the torches?"

Daniello's stood, frozen betwixt moonlight and lamplight. "Not me," he whispered, but it mattered not. He had come to kill them, and steal his belongings back. _I've failed,_ a voice said, quivering in a way that sounded most unlike him. _Why didn't I go home…? Why…?_ A dozen voices flooded his head, yet the loudest of them all was Caspius'own venomous words. _Stupid boy, stupid, stupid, stupid…_ In the far reaches of Daniello's mind, he heard once more the Dunmer's cold, bloodless laughter, and somehow knew that he would get exactly what he deserved.

One of the bandits stole a step close and through the veil of midnight, Daniello could see his face in better clarity. _He's the one who spoke to me this morning._

"It's the boy," the one-eyed bandit said. "The one with the golden claw."

"And he's a vampire?"

"He can't be,"

"Kill him, to be sure. Bury him in salt."

Daniello lunged forward, his dagger poised. _I won't die on my back!_ His mind had taken leave, and all that remained was his will to live. Yet, as swiftly as he attacked, he soon found himself on his back from a single fist; his swelling lip bloodied, and his dizzy mind swimming.

"If he is a vampire, he's a fledgling one," the one-eyed bandit scoffed, wiping off his fist. "He can barely take a punch."

"Quick, let's set him alight. He'll call forth others."

The one-eyed bandit straddled Daniello's chest. Suddenly, Daniello felt the cold tip of steel against the soft of his belly. "What a sorry creature you are. Did you kill your mother, too? Drink her blood?" The blade pushed deeper and deeper, yet for all he fought, Daniello could not shake the man. Steel pierced fur and leather - then, he felt skin unsewn, and a searing pain shot up from his belly. "Speak, corpsewalker," the bandit said. "You killed your mother, didn't you?"  
There were tears in Daniello's eyes, and he felt blood begin to spill from his belly. _When she learns of my death, she'll die from grief._ Was that the same as killing her? Did that matter anymore? He had no one left in this world, not even the embrace of his own parents. He was naught but a liar and a thief, but worst of all, he was _weak_. Weak when he forged a letter in his uncle's script, asking for money he could never pay back, and even weaker when he lied about it. _How shamed Uncle Marelli was when they told him of my perjury… He never looked at me again._ Did it matter if a lying, familyless guttersnipe died at night, wishing he could take it all back? _And how many men wish, on their deathbeds, all that they could take back? Is hindsight our bittersweet clarity?_

A hefty, meaty fist grappled the one-eyed man's shoulder, and with a Giant's might, flung the man off the nest, down the slope of the mountain, while his choked warble echoed for miles.

Rokon flexed his back with an audible pop, and he turned his war-axe on the bandits to his rear. With the girth of a grizzly and the snapping swiftness of a panther, the Orc brought his axe to steel against nearly eight armed men. He lumbered with each step, his grace in reckless abandon, yet when he _struck…_ It might as well a hurl of lightning.  
The first bandit slashed with a dingy iron sword, and Rokon answered with a pivot; the Orc's polished emerald axe lashed out, trailed by spurts of crimson from between a bandit's now-untethered neck. Rokon wrenched his axe free, the muscles in his arms corded like thickly woven rope, and when he brought his axe down for a second time, his foe's head split with a thunderous crack.

"Back, Orc!" One of the bandits howled. "You're outnumbered. There are seven of us, and only one of you!"

"One warrior," Rokon began, each word spoken with a livid rasp. "Seven boys. Do not contend with me."

A foolhardy boy decided to do that very thing, while another bandit aimed his spear for the Orc's knees. Rokon moved in a way unlike any man his size should; the spear's point drove into the stone, and the Orc gave a mighty stomp that split the ashewood in two. The foolish boy with higher ambitions and less intelligence whipped his warhammer, and watched as it broke naught but wind.

Rokon made a fleeting gesture, and Daniello saw the axe plunge into the side of a bandit's face, splittering shards of rotten teeth and fissures of protruding jawbone. A vertical cut sliced the air, and he watched as the width between the same man's eyes grew further and further apart, while crimson and pink poured through a valley of fractured bone.  
One by one, each man aiming to end the fight, sprung. Rokon held the narrow bridge with only his axe, forcing his foes to straddle the walkway.

"Move, damn it -"

"You're in my way!"

"I can't hit the bastard!"

Then, a double-bitten war axe wrenched Rokon's shoulder downward. Blood stained the Orc's furs, and he let forth a vicious howl.

"I have him!" One man cried out.

"Move, move! He's wounded!"

Rokon's axe fell. Daniello watched, sidelong, as the Orc slouched from the weight of the steel embedded into his shoulder. _He's died for me. He's fought for me, and now he's died, and… there's no one else to blame._ The wound bled more, weeping profusely between his fingers.  
Something changed. The Orc drew a sharp breath, and in one snap, he stood tall, unburdened by the iron embedded in his shoulder. Rokon opened his mouth.

"FUS -"  
The air grew still.  
"-RO DAH!"


	4. The Dragon and the Lion

4.  
The Dragon and the Lion

Daniello awoke under a thin frost of snow. The stars sprawled out across a violet sky, and after several moments, consciousness seeped in, while his blood seeped out. A chill shuddered his chest (or was it the brush of death?), and in the aftermath of misbegotten decisions, the overwhelming urge to live sent him forward. His hands gripped the frostbitten stone; mind, body, and spirit intent on surviving. _This is not me. I do not die gently in the cold night._

In the faint dark, he saw Rokon standing over a battered man. Fists rained down, and with each strike the bandit's face made a meaty, wet _thunk.._ Blood ran down his cheeks, tracing along the curves of bruises and lacerated skin. The Orc raised his fist, his knuckles swollen and stained red, A heartbeat later, he bludgeoned the bandit's face in two.

Daniello's body trembled.

Rokon hobbled across the snow. He placed a hand on the axe - the very same axe buried in his shoulder. His body wrenched, his throat let forth a vicious growl. The axe went reeling across the stone in streaks of blood.

"Can you walk?"

Daniello blinked. "Can you?"

"Aye," Rokon said, his words rasped. He shuffled over, a giant that could unnerve even a grizzly, and gripped Daniello by the collar with a iron-like grip. With one great heave, Daniello felt himself lifted like a child, cradled in the Orc's arm.

"No - " Daniello kicked, and felt a spasm of pain in his stomach. His muscles clenched, and he let out a cry.

"Put pressure on it," Rokon said, his voice haggard. "We must… We need to get to Whiterun."

Then, Daniello remembered. Before the darkness of a dreamless sleep embraced him, he heard it - no, _felt_ it. Thunder. A booming roar that quivered the ground, stirred the birds from the trees, and unturned the cogs at the heart of Nirn itself. The ancient words from the stories, arcane and familiar all at once, had been spoken - no, _shouted._ Daniello's heart quickened in his chest, booming almost nearly as loud as Rokon's warcry.

"It's you," he croaked, sounding more a mouse and less a man. "Is it really…?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I do not know."

The pain endured, aching at first, and at times, in spasms. With each shock, his body clenched, and he felt the rush of blood seep through his leathers, while the endless burning sensation lingered. _You stupid boy,_ Daniello thought. _You're crying, damn it._ "I am sorry."

"The fault is not your own," Rokon said softly. "Don't speak. You'll worsen your wound."

Daniello wiped his eyes, and left behind a wet streak of blood on his nose. "Where have you been?" The tears came again, and at first he appreciated the warmth, until the wetness grew cold and crisped on his cheeks. "My grandfather used to tell me stories about you. There used to be a new one every day… Then, they stopped." _Stop talking, boy. No one cares about your grandfather._

Rokon stalked down the mountainside, his labored, frosted breaths ghosting before his gnarled lips. "Stories?" In spite of the frigid cold, there remained a warmth in the Orc's voice.

"The overlord under Bleak Falls Barrow," Daniello said. "You battled the Overlord under there, in the mountain - and how you battled the Daedric Prince of Nightmares in the forgotten dream… The duel with the dragon atop the Throat of the World, and -"

Rokon shushed him. "Enough." That was the end of that. In silence, they continued down mountainside, through gentle snowfall and the light breeze of winter. At times, Rokon heaved, his breathing labored, but the old bull had the willpower of struck steel. In spite of the wounds that plagued him, Daniello never once felt the Orc stumble or shift his weight. Once set to a task, Rokon appeared to never sway.

"Thank you," Daniello said after a time, as the farms of Whiterun came into view. The words sounded meek coming from him.

Rokon bowed his head, but said nothing.

Outside of Whiterun's gates, the guardsman called them to a halt. "City's closed, gentlemen," he said, eyeing both Daniello and Rokon curiously. "Something to do with the vampire scares."

Vampires? Daniello felt his belly twist. A fleeting memory came, one of Caspius tearing a man's throat out, and the immortal look in his eyes.

"I am only returning home, guardsmen. My wife lives just beyond the Blacksmith," Rokon said.

The guardsmen relented, though he looked certain that no Orcs lived in Whiterun. Only several paces down the dark, empty street, they turned to a house with golden lit windows, where he rapped a certain pattern on the door.

A woman answered. Daniello felt his lips twitch when he saw her. A tall, Nordic lady with broad shoulders, wide hips and a pair of dark eyes that could bore a hole through a sheet of iron. Her ebon tresses were gathered carelessly in a cotton string, and the humble nightdress she wore caught the glint of moonlight with an azure glow. To call her beautiful would have been an understatement.

"What happened?" Her eyes narrowed. "Come out of the rain, Rokon. You look half dead - what have you gotten yourself into, now?"

"Bandits. The boy needs more attention than I." Rokon started into the home. In the center of the room sat fire topped with a pot of simmering stew. The walls were decorated in Imperial banners, weapons, shields, and in the corner of the room, beside a stocked bookcase, sat a suit of polished armor by the likes Daniello had never seen.

The woman took Daniello from Rokon's arms with so little as a huff. Her arms were better described as bands of metal, corded with thongs of tethered rope. Her touch, however, lacked Rokon's delicacy, and as she laid Daniello on the rug beside the flame, he felt a spasm of sharp pain in his abdomen.

"Lydia, please," Rokon said as the woman wrenched bloodied furs off his shoulders. "I'll live. Tend the boy."

"Quiet," Lydia said, her lips pursed into a thin line. "Sit, Rokie. I'll find a basin of water." She turned to Daniello. "Hold that wound tight, child. I'll need to burn it clean of rot." In a flash, she disappeared up the stairs.

"Who is she?" Daniello asked.

Rokon stripped off his tunic. There seemed to be no place along his bear chest that was unburdened; his flesh appeared to be a tapestry of scars, burns, and poorly healed gashes. Entire chunks seemed to have been gnawed off the Orc's frame, while the thin strips of sliced flesh along his throat - dashed across his bulbous adam's apple, told of would-be assassins and cutthroats. "She is my sworn shield."

Daniello accepted his answer, even if it waned in explanation. Given the recent events, he had no desire to pry, and so his attention diverted to the corner of the room, where the armor stood, erected by a mannequin underneath. The metals caught the glint of the fire with a curious golden hue, yet it was the helmet that caught his attention the most. An intricate carving sat atop; a bone-colored dragon with wings sprawled, tipped in jeweled onyx, and folded defensively around the face of the helm.  
 _The stories were real,_ he found himself thinking. _Not as they were told, but… they were real._ Perhaps it was the aching wound in his belly, or the sudden realization that dreams _do_ come true, but Daniello found himself crying all over again, yet now his tears were dried beside the fire.

"Boy?"

Daniello wiped his face. "Yes?"

"Would you like to ask me something?" Rokon asked.

In spite of himself, Daniello found himself nodding eagerly. _Everything. I want to ask you everything._


	5. Night Forever

5.  
Night Forever

"Innocence, my brother." Caspius stepped out from finite darkness, into the crimson gaze of the Black Door.

" _Welcome home."_

The crypt's unholy door swung open, and the Listener stepped into the shadows with the ease of donning a winter coat, and proceeded down the gloomy halls. The Sanctuary had a habit of whistling at night, when the chilled winds that made up Dawnstar's unkindly weather blew in from the east. Crevices in the walls, ripe with moss and dust, would let forth a howl as Skyrim's seasonless winters rushed through, until the caverns were cold, dank, and foreboding.  
Of course, he rather enjoyed the chill. Immortality came with a distaste of warmth.

"You're late," Nazir said as Caspius breezed by him, silent as a cat, his hooded shadow thrown across the dining hall. "A week. Only a week, you said, and would you look at that? Three and half, and not a single letter."

Caspius sighed. "I do not need to be interrogated when I walk in the door. The situation at Whiterun has taken a turn for the worse, I fear. Where is Babette? Why isn't she here?"

"Sifting through your letters, no doubt." Nazir took his seat at the dining hall table, where banknotes, land deeds, and contracts all sat in a messy scramble. "We're running low on funds, Listener." The title that ended Nazir's sentence came with a certain shrill, as if it tasted sour on the Redguard's lips.

Caspius found his dismay troubling. It did not do well for the Lion's pride to turn on him, for such only happened when the family grew too hungry (or gluttonous, as he feared more so). _My absence has starved my pride, and perhaps they're in need of fresh meat._ "Give Xander and Hjall the northernmost contracts. I shall take the southerns."

"And spend more time investigating reports of frenzied vampires?" Nazir rolled his eyes. "Three weeks you spent away from home, while we've sat on our hands waiting for you to _listen._ Not all of us make do with living on blood, Caspius. There needs to be work for our numbers, and only you can distribute it."

Caspius dismissed him with a wave of the hand. "Fine, Nazir. You've made your point. I shall convene with Mother tonight, and by the morrow, you shall have a stack of names. I promise."

Nazir exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. His arms folded across his chest, eyes alight with great distaste and tried patience. "And what do we do in the meantime? While these contracts are being performed?"

"Sell land." Caspius waved a hand. "Gather Babette and Cicero. I shall hear their council." As he spoke the words, he found himself laughing. _I am consuled by a child and a jester. Not even the Mad God could write my story._

"There is only so much land left to sell," the Redguard pointed out. "You're missing my point."

"I see you, but I do not see Babette, nor Cicero."

Nazir grit his teeth. "Caspius - "

"I see you," Caspius began once more, "but I do not _see_ Babette or Cicero. How transparent must I be?"

Nazir stood, and silently made his way out of the hall. By the time his presence was absent, Caspius found his attention waning. _No, no, I could never kill him. He handles my finances and half my affairs._ It might have been a cruel joke orchestrated by the originator of the Dark Gift. Living nocturnally often made daily matters, from banking to land management, nigh impossible. To get by even in the slightest, a vampire was chained to his thrall, for whom could manage affairs in the daylight hours.

And of course, killing a Brother would evoke the Dread-Father's wrath; these days most especially, Caspius was sure he had already earned someone's wrath.

"Good evening, my dear." Babette ghosted into the room, dressed in a lady's finery that somehow managed to avoid the Sanctuary's grime. _She's been waiting for me,_ Caspius realized. "Has your journey left you breathless?"

"I hardly ever walk nowadays, darling. Dare I say, my arms are dangerously tired." Caspius let a smile fall upon his lips. "Where is Cicero?"

"On a contract," Babette said. She smiled, and her freshly powdered face bore a maw of fanged teeth. "Did you find anything on these attacks in Whiterun?"

Caspius began to pour his cup to the brim with a crimson liquid. "The Vampires are fledglings. They attacked the city in droves a fortnight before, but some buxom Nordic wench fended them off. Must have experience with vampires, I take it, but what I found most interesting was their use of Hounds."

"Hounds?" Babette took her seat beside him.

"Hounds, darling, hounds!" Caspius laughed, his hearty voice ringing. "I inspected the corpses they kept in the temple. Doubtless, the Hounds are dogs that have contracted Porphyric Hemophilia, and I imagine they make decent thralls, but… I cannot say I've learned anymore than when I began. My questions remain."

Babette gave a nod. "We do not know why they're attacking."

"And worse, still, the attacks continue everyday. I heard from a boisterous Nord in Riverwood that Riften saw an attack recently, as did Markarth. If this is a cult of vampires, and these attacks _are_ organized… I find their lack of care most disconcerting. It's as if they don't care how unruly they're making our hunting grounds, or how dangerous being a vampire in Skyrim has become."

Babette ran fingers through her finely kept hair, leaving it tousled. "At first, I believed it only to be a frenzy of newborns with a death wish. To that, I still believe, but… Caspius, I find it hard to deny that these attacks are - "

"Are…?"

"Orchestrated."

Caspius reclined in his seat. "I prefer the word 'organized'."

"I am sure you do," Babette began, "And surely they carry different connotations. I do not believe there is a single organization carrying out these attacks."

"You believe it to be someone," Caspius asked.

"Whatever it is, it does not bode well for our kin. Hunting has grown more difficult, and less travelers are willing to stop in the dead of night, even for a _sweet little girl._ " She cooed her words, and gently lay a hand on Caspius arm. "Such a frightening world it's become, when even a darling child cannot rely on the kindness of people."

Gently, Caspius slipped away from her touch. "A shame," he agreed. "Nazir cannot understand. The living could not. I shan't blame him." The thought, however, _did_ frighten him. There had been an awaking - he could feel it. Something terrible had been unearthed in Skyrim, and though his bones were old and scarred, he could yet still feel the tremble in them. "I hear there are a group of vampire-hunters, somewhere out in the world."

"Truly?" Babette asked. She seemed to have notice his attempt break contact with her, and her tone diminished noticeably. "The fledglings have drawn so much ire, the people are rallying against our kind. What are we to do?"

 _We, as in, us vampires,_ Caspius thought. Their troubles did not bother the rest of the Brotherhood, even if their leader trembled in his boots. _If they were all vampires, though… they would understand._ No, it was best not to think like that. The Dark Gift had always been meant to be a choice. "There's little we can do. I must meet with whoever these vampire hunters are."

"Shameless," Babette snapped. "Are you insane?"

"One could argue, yes."

"They will kill you."

"They will try."

Babette watched him for sometime. A sadness lingered in her bloodied eyes. "If you die, I have no one." She took his sleeve in a way that was more childlike than womanly, and Caspius knew exactly what angle she played at. _If she cannot sway my mind, then she will sway my heart._ The err was her own. He had masoned walls around his heart long ago.

"I shall not die, darling. My night is eternal."

"You misconstrue your own mortality."

" _You_ speak too much." Caspius stood, having never touched his drink, and began down the hallway to his bedroom. Babette's light footfalls followed closely behind.

"Perhaps you should quiet me?"

The quip, if delivered by a woman, would have stirred Caspius' lust like no other. Yet the voice that carried it came from a child - no, a woman sealed within a child's body, and when he looked back at her to respond, he saw just that; a child with more charm than she should ever own, more wisdom than any ten-year old - all which stemmed from the lips of an ageless creature. _If only you were bitten as an older women… My dear, we would be so happy together._ He smiled down at her, and turned his attention back to the pitless corridor before him. _If only, if only…_

But what he fantasized, and what _was,_ could not be changed. Babette would forever be a child, and though she was a sophisticated woman with a passion for culture, poetry, and music, when he looked upon her there could be no denial; the very idea of it made his stomach twist.

The master bedroom had been kept clean by charmed brooms that swept daily. Dusters worked their way through his bookcases and desk, careful to leave scattered letters undisturbed, while skirting dust and cobwebs away. Caspius made for the wardrobe instantly, and as the door came apart, his impeccable fashion popped out in a series of fineries, from velvet crimsons to emeralds and violets. He began to strip from his road-worn garb, peeling muddy leathers and cloth from his body. Rather than don fineries, he chose instead for a grayed robe with silver laces, and a white fur collar.

"Where are you going?" Babette asked, her eyes following him. "Are you leaving already?"

"There's work to be done, darling." Caspius flicked open a jewelry box, and began sifting through rings, amulets, and circlets. "You wouldn't have me leave these fledgling attackers unattended, would you?"

"I'd have you stay," Babette said, her arms crossed. "At least for dinner. Caspius, dear, we haven't been to dinner in months. Or even the theater."

"The season for theater is over. No thespians are travelling to Skyrim, Babette. But… we shall have dinner soon. I'd like to go hunting, in fact."

A silence prevailed, if only for a moment. _I've hurt her,_ he thought, as he so often did. What more could he say? How much more could she expect of him? In truth, there were nights where his mind wandered, wishing in part that Astrid had never died, wishing dreams of an eternal moon where he had no responsibilities, no Brotherhood, and no love to speak of. Only the hunt for blood, his endless hunt to be satiated, would endure... _Pure fantasy. I've begun to dream again._

"How long will you be?" Babette roused him from his dream.

"Not long."

"You said a week, before." Babette held her nose high in a way that reminded Caspius only of Breton aristocracy. "Then, three weeks later, you arrive home and tell me you're leaving _again._. Tell me, Caspius, how long will you delay this time?"

"I should prefer no delay at all," he said, "But if there is, then you will _wait._ Do not question me nor my punctuality. I've grown sick of it."

" _You've grown sick of it?"_ the vampress hissed.

Caspius turned, and with a single swipe, found Babette's cheek with the back of his hand. It stung his heart more than it reddened her cheek, but it had to be done. Astrid had taught him, in the den of killers, there could be no disrespect, even from those you love.

In his jewelry box, he found a wooden ring settled with a prized opal. It pulsed with an arcane warmth between his fingers.

"I shall be home soon," Caspius said, his words softened for her.

"Do as you must." Babette had turned away from him, and began down the hall. Before she made it to the door, she wiped her eyes, and the embrace of shadows brought her into the crypt's abyss..

With a sigh, he summoned forth the spell of _Recall,_ and felt his body shift through worldly planes, as simple as stepping through a doorway. The world around him became a blur of colors, swirling and twisting, until the faint chill of the Sanctuary receded, and the stench of raw sewage touched upon his senses. Darkness clutched him tight as the rest of the world formed; the distant moan of a skooma addict, a rattle of iron bars, and merriment from a pub halfway down the Ratways, where skeevers from all walks of life stood on their hinds and donned the skins of men and mer alike.

Caspius reached out into the darkness, seeing iron bars in a way no mortal could, and wrenched the gate open. He tossed curious eyes over his shoulder, down the dusty, grimy corridors, and made his way down the sewers, aptly named the Ratways. He could not let Babette linger on his conscious for long. There was work to be done.


	6. The Dragon's Behest

6.  
The Dragon's Behest

The wound smelled of seared flesh, and it was tender to the touch. Daniello fidgeted for hours that night, doing his best to sleep beside the fire, yet every once and awhile, when it was most inconvenient, the bandaged wound at his belly would itch. Not simply itch, but _ravenously_ itch. Every time he would move to scratch it, however, the crone of a woman named Lydia swatted him with rock-like hands.

"You open that wound, child, and I'll open the back of your head." In spite of her sharp tone, that morning she checked his wounds and spooned him a bowl of soup. "Are you hungry, Rokie?" she asked as she gave Daniello's head a ruffle.

Rokon shook his head. His shoulder had been sutured shut, knots of medical twine swollen against fissured flesh, but the Orc bore the weight of his wound with small complaint. It must have been ease to him, Daniello figured; it was as if each battle marked itself upon his body, a lesson never to be forgotten.

"If you don't mind me asking," Daniello began, between mouth-fulls of stew, "how did you become so adept at first aid, miss?"

Lydia snorted. "Who do you think patched this one's wounds?" She jabbed a thumb at Rokon. "After a lifetime of adventuring, you'd best be good at first aid. Are you sure you aren't hungry, Rokie?"

"I have plenty of mass to spare." Rokon stood, heaving the weight of his injured shoulder with a grunt. "There is something I need to do." He lumbered across the room, donning his bloodied furs, and made for the door.

"Are you alright?" Lydia asked.

"Bleak Falls Barrow. Rest easy, Daniello. Eat and gather your strength." With that, he was gone.

Lydia sighed. Her hands moved to her eyes, and she gave a yawn. "That man, I swear… Are you well, child? Do you need anything?"

Daniello nodded. "I believe so. I… Saying 'thank you' might be unbecoming, considering the events, but… I am grateful."

"Needn't you worry about it. How did this disaster come to happen? Were you being attacked, or -"

"- It was my fault." Daniello interjected. "He went out to save me. I got in over my head, you see, and it… It's best to say he was looking out for me."

"It seems to be in his nature."

"Are you two, erm, married?"

"Legally." Lydia smiled, and poured herself a cup of water. "He owns land around the country. Never one for numbers, that man, and so I tend to our accounts."

"Do you know who he is?" Daniello's words began to fumble. Rokon had been kind enough to answer almost any question he had during the night, yet a choice few Daniello's queries went ignored. Wrapping his mind around the idea, even still, baffled him. All of the stories bespoke of the Dragonborn as a Nord; in some tales, a man, and in others, a woman. But never an Orc, least of all… a very _fat_ orc.

"Who he is?" Lydia squinted. A ray of sunlight glimmered through the curtains, over her shoulder. "Child, are _you_ certain who he is?"

Daniello shook his head.

The woman snorted. "Then it is best you ask him."

"Why?" Daniello wondered if he had more questions than senses.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "You're too young to understand. Adults are complicated, young man. Seldom are they as they appear, or how they present themselves. You would do best to learn that."

 _I already know that,_ Daniello thought bitterly. Or, at least he _thought_ he knew that. Could the Dragonborn spoken of in the stories be the same man whom lived them? In truth, now that he considered the tales… they never often spoke of _who_ the Dragomborn was, only what he did.

If that were the case… Who was the Dragonborn?

It did not take long for Lydia to retire after her sleepless night. She checked Daniello's bandages once more, making certain the wounds had not come to infection, and soon made her way upstairs. Daniello found his feet a moment later, dressed down in his muddied clothes (which, to his discomfort, were still wet with blood). Whiterun bustled in the early morning, from the faint smell of the nearby Blacksmith's forge heating up to the distant chatter up the road, where shop keeps began to set up their stalls.  
How much had changed in a night? Yesterday morning, he had been a guttersnipe seeking vengeance against vicious thugs. Now those thugs were dead, but what remained of his quest? His journey, his excursion… and The Masque of Clavicus Vile. It was all that remained. The gnawing urge to find it, put it to use, and wield it against those he thought were his foes. But what did that mean anymore? Who were his foes? Or, as the thought pervaded, was he merely a child playing at the game of gods? Searching for meaning where he, Daniello, had none?  
But he needed the Masque, that much he knew. If last night had proven anything, it was that he could not prevail in his life without it. Power could make anyone _someone_ , and now more than ever Daniello felt like nobody at all.

The road to Bleak Falls Barrow had a trail of dried blood. Daniello climbed to the top, where the steps of the Tomb began, yet he found Rokon several feet away, under the shade of a snow-dusted pine tree. The Orc wielded a spade, and along the ground sat several graves.

"I thought you would be resting," Rokon said. He plunged the spade into the ground and upended tufts of snow and dirt. A haggard grunt left his lips as he stepped over the grave, and latch his hefty hands on a dead bandit's ankle.

"Perhaps I should be." Daniello watched him drag bodies across the dirt - the very bodies of the bandits he had slain the night before. _What is he doing?_ Daniello squinted his eyes, and Rokon gently laid each body into a freshly dug grave. _The stories never told of the gravedigging hero,_ he thought. _When does the Dragonborn dig graves for his foes?_ "Why are you burying them?"

"I took their lives. It is my responsibility to see them buried."

"I don't see why," Daniello said. "They tried to kill us."

"They had names." Rokon began to shovel the dirt over the graves. "Families and friends. A man does not turn to banditry because he is evil. He plunders because he is hungry."

"Or greedy," Daniello offered.

"Yes." Rokon rested his shovel against his shoulder, his breathing labored. "I do not blame the man for cutting the purse from my belt. I blame the events that forced his hand."

Daniello said nothing, for the idea itself seemed foreign to him. _What are you saying? That people cannot be blamed for their actions? That we are all byproducts of a events? Is their no responsibility for the things we do?_ He did not, or rather, could not agree. Everything in life had a price, and those who weighed the price and decided it was worth dying for, even the hungriest of bandits, should be held accountable for their actions.

"Found things in their loot. One of them had my golden claw."

"That was me," Daniello said quickly, and as the words left his mouth, his lips twisted as if he'd sucked a lemon. Speaking the truth had a flavor most sour. "I… I stole it from you. I was angry, Rokon - I'm sorry."

Rokon inclined his head. "I understand. You had your reasons."

Daniello, at first, said nothing. _He's a step away from pacifism…_ This was not the hero he had imagined - not in the slightest. "I have to go soon, sir. There is somewhere I must go, and to be frank, I'd rather not bother you or your wife for long with my… antics."

Rokon's throat rumbled a sigh, whether of deliberance or concession, Daniello did not know, but after a moment of silence the Orc gave a nod. "Soon."

"Soon?" Daniello cocked his head to the side. "I'm confused."

"We leave soon."

"But you don't know where I am going," Daniello said, baffled. "You don't know what I'm trying to accomplish."

The Orc stepped over one of the graves, and retrieved his emerald axe. "I spent years helping others achieve their goals, boy. Tell me - if you could not fend off meager bandits, how will you go about facing a Spriggan? Or even Giants?" Rokon scoffed. "This 'somewhere' of yours… Where is it?"

"Haemar's Cavern," Daniello said. "It's in Falkreath - but, I need gold before I go. Five hundred gold, even, and that's not nearly - "

Rokon snorted. "Haemar's Cavern? What will you find there?"

Daniello bit his lip.

"A man won't tell his business?" Rokon asked.

"Am I a man, or a boy?"

"That is for you to decide." Rokon reached into his pockets, and fished out the golden claw. With a toss, he sent it through the air.

Daniello caught it. The claw glittered, solid gold and jeweled with precious gemstones. "But this is your property."

The Orc marched passed Daniello. "Sell it. Return to Whiterun and ready your things."

"When do we leave?"

"Next week." Rokon started off down the mountainside, leaving Daniello with the whistle of lonely winds, and the smell of freshly dug graves. None of that mattered to him. His spirits had been lifted.


End file.
